Retirement uncovered a loneliness that had been building for years.
Once I retired, the problems began, I thought, realizing how old age can expose a solitude accumulated over decades.
I am sixty. For the first time, I feel invisibleto my children, my grandchildren, my exhusband, even to the world. Yet I am still here. I go to the pharmacy, buy bread, sweep the small courtyard beneath my window. Inside, however, there is an emptiness that grows heavier each morning now that I no longer rush to work. No one calls to ask, Mom, how are you?
I have lived alone for years. My children are grown, with families of their own, and they live in different cities: my son in Lyon, my daughter in Marseille. My grandchildren are getting older, but I barely know them. I dont see them go to school, I no longer knit scarves for them, I dont tell them bedtime stories. They have never invited me into their homes. Never.
One day I asked my daughter,
Why wont you let me visit? I could help with the kids
She replied in a calm but icy tone,
Mom, you know why My husband doesnt like you. Youre always interfering, and you have your way of doing things
I stayed silent, felt ashamed, and hurt. I wasnt imposing; I just wanted to be near them. Her answerhe doesnt like youapplied to both my grandchildren and my children, as if I had been erased. Even my exhusband, who lives in the neighboring village, never finds time to see me, sending only a brief birthday message once a year, as if it were a favor.
When I retired, I told myself: finally, time for me. I would knit, stroll in the mornings, take painting classes as Id always dreamed. Instead, anxiety arrived.
First came inexplicable episodes: racing heart, dizziness, a sudden fear of dying. I consulted doctors, underwent scans, MRIs, ECGs. Nothing showed up. One physician said,
Its in your head. You need to talk to someone, see people. Youre alone.
That was worse than a diagnosis, because there is no pill for loneliness.
Sometimes I go to the supermarket just to hear the cashiers voice. Other times I sit on the bench in front of the building, pretending to read, hoping someone will strike up a conversation. Yet everyone is in a hurry, rushing past, while I remain, breathing, remembering
What have I done wrong? Why has my family turned away from me? I raised them alone. Their father left early. I worked day and night, cooked, ironed their uniforms, cared for them when they were sick. I never drank, never partiedeverything for them. And now I seem useless.
Perhaps I was too strict? Too controlling? I only wanted the best for themto become good, responsible people. I shielded them from bad influences and mistakes. In the end, here I am, alone.
I dont seek pity, just understanding: am I a terrible mother? Or is it simply the era we live in, where everyone is preoccupied with their own worries, debts, school, activities leaving no room for their mother?
People sometimes suggest, Find a man, sign up on dating sites. But I cant. Trust has faded after so many solitary years. I lack the strength to open up, to fall in love, to welcome a stranger into my home. Moreover, my health is no longer what it once was.
I cant work any longer. Before, there were colleagueschats, laughter. Now there is only silence, so heavy that I turn on the TV just to hear a voice.
At times I wonder, what if I disappeared? Would anyone notice? My children, my ex, the neighbor from third floor? The thought scares me to tears.
Then I get up, go to the kitchen, make tea, and think: maybe tomorrow will be better. Maybe someone will think of me, call, write. Perhaps I still matter to someone.
As long as a sliver of hope remains, I am still alive.
